Ferried Through the Future (Festive Fluff)
by cinnamonspacedust
Summary: Fresh from the '40s, Steve is still getting used to 2012 and all its modern marvels. Coulson has assigned his trusty assistant Clara to keep an eye on the guy as he adjusts. Clara and Steve form a fast friendship; one that flourishes into something a little more during the festive season.
1. Milkshakes and Motorcycles

Director Phil Coulson had been missing from his office all week. He usually came and went for unpredictable periods of time, but not without informing Clara Farrell, his trusty assistant. There were plants to water and pets to feed, but Coulson had requested no such services during his mysterious leave of absence. He hadn't so much as sent a text.

That was until this morning when he'd materialised at her door to collect his messages and place his coffee order.

Clara assumed that Coulson was tied up in the aftermath of the 'running man' incident. She'd dutifully taken his messages, watered his fern and fed his cat, expecting him to waltz into the office and vent about the week's happenings when the matter was all wrapped up.

Coulson didn't seem to be in the mood for a catch-up when Clara appeared with his coffee. She'd brought one for herself, too. She'd missed the banter.

Today was different. She could feel it the moment she walked into his office. There would be no banter today.

'Shut the door and take a seat, Farrell.'

Clara did as she was told. He continued shuffling papers back and forth between files, leaving her in a prolonged state of seat-squirming anticipation.

'Is something wrong, sir?'

'Wrong?' he said, challenging her to elaborate.

'Ehm. I've barely seen or heard from you all week.'

'Par for the course in my line of business,' he muttered.

She released an exasperated sigh, angling her next jab for a more effective mark, 'You just asked for full-cream milk and sugar in your coffee. You haven't done that since New Mexico.'

Mentioning the Thor situation usually got his feathers a little ruffled. The director punched a pair of holes through a stack of papers with a little too much force.

Clara pressed on, 'Are we going to talk about the big blond elephant in the room or not? The one who apparently ploughed through twenty agents on his way out the door last week?'

Now, at last, she had the director's full attention. She crossed her legs and relaxed a little in her chair.

'Ah,' he said softly. 'So you've heard.'

'Mm. I heard all about his stampede,' she continued. 'The girls in HR tell me he's absolutely gorgeous for an old defrosted man.'

Coulson collected his folders and rose to his feet, circling his desk until he halted at her side.

'That big blond elephant just so happens to be an American icon. A war hero. They didn't mention Captain America in your high school history lessons?'

Having grown up in Ireland, Clara couldn't say she'd heard of the so-called American icon. So she shook her head and gestured for him to continue.

Coulson handed her the freshly-compiled stack of folders with a slow and silent reverence, 'Well then, it's time for you to do your homework.'

Clara took the files, eyes narrow with suspicion, 'Level five clearance. Hmm.'

'You'll be spending a bit of time with this man over the next few weeks. Maybe months.' The director folded his arms and leaned back against his desk, 'I figured you'd need a bit of backstory. You'll find these files a bit more concrete than that water cooler gossip that the HR girls have given you.'

He gave her a few minutes to swallow the information. Clara poured through the files and muttered soft exclamations to herself. She stopped at one document, tracing her fingers down the page as she absorbed each word.

'You want him for the Avengers Initiative,' she said softly.

'Correct,' Coulson said from the depths of his coffee cup.

Clara detached a black and white photo from a paperclip and lifted it for a closer inspection. The image depicted a waiflike man in military clothes. He wore a serious expression, eyes focussed and filled with determination.

'How long does he have before you...call on him?' Clara asked.

'The sooner he's up to speed, the better. That's where you come in.'

'You want me to teach him how to use the internet and operate a hole in the wall?'

'That, and more. I want you to be his tour guide to the future. Set him up with an apartment, a phone, a Netflix subscription. Get him a life here. But be gentle with him, Farrell. We don't want him jaded; we want him adjusted.'

Coulson left her side and started rummaging through a cupboard.

Clara ran her fingers through her hair, considering the magnitude of the task ahead of her, 'This man is going to need some serious therapy.'

'We're already on it,' he assured her, emerging from his cupboard with a small shoe box. 'He'll be back here every week for sessions.'

'Has he got family?'

Coulson took a moment to consider his response, 'Peggy Carter, are you familiar with that name?'

'As in that Peggy Carter? Co-founder of S.H.I.E.L.D?' she pointed to a large photograph that had always hung on the director's wall. It was a rather solemn portrait of a red-lipped Margaret 'Peggy' Carter, set in an elegant mahogany frame.

'She and Captain Rogers were close. While I understand that her memory might be failing her, I think she'd like to see him. I pay her visits every other month, she enjoys the company.'

He fussed with his tie and sniffed.

Clara's eyes softened upon him, 'They mean a lot to you, don't they? Peggy Carter and Captain America?'

It felt a little silly for her to call anyone 'Captain America', but seeing the value that her director placed on the title gave it weight.

Coulson opened the shoebox that he'd exhumed from the depths of his cupboard and took a selection of cards from it. He turned one over in his hand and smiled, eyes misty with nostalgia.

Kept inside a slip of clear protective wrap, the Captain America collectable cards had been lovingly preserved. She couldn't help but smile at the proud, serious images of the Captain. They were a stark contrast to the thin boy in the black and white photograph.

'I think you'll like him. He's old-fashioned, but I think that the world needs a bit of old-fashioned right now. Don't you?'

Clara could now see why the director had chosen to assign his personal assistant for this task, rather than one of his other, more specialised agents. She got the impression that Captain Rogers ought to be treated with patience and compassion, like a long-lost family member.

'I'll take good care of him, sir.' she said, gathering the Captain America files close to her chest.

'I have no doubt you will.'

* * *

Clara sat at her desk and massaged her temples. A week of endless phone calls and crammed history lessons had passed since her meeting with Coulson, and it had earned her one hell of a headache.

She'd pulled a lot of strings and called in a lot of favours to get Steve's Brooklyn apartment purchased and furnished so promptly. Upon inspecting the final product, she had to admit that she'd truly outdone herself. It was a place that she hoped he would feel proud to call home.

Each day this week had finished in a bed laden with Coulson's comprehensive Captain America files. While they were thorough, they told her little of Steve's personality or quirks. She expected that no amount of paperwork would prepare her for ferrying this man into the future.

She lifted her head and glared at a lone sticky note that had been stuck to the centre of her monitor earlier that morning. It was the most obnoxious shade of yellow that she had ever seen.

**Today's the day!**

**Meet Hill at 0900  
Interrogation Room 4N**

**Remember, adjusted. Not jaded.**

**PC.**

She peeled the note from the screen and sent it to her top drawer, where it joined a collection of Captain America suit designs that Coulson had sent her for a second opinion.

Nerves crept upon her as she glanced at her desk clock. Up until today, Steve Rogers had been a character profile that she'd been building from bits and pieces of information. In twenty minutes, he'd become a reality. A full-time job. Maybe even a friend.

She'd settle for a well-adjusted member of modern society.

* * *

Steve Rogers bore little resemblance to the illustrations on Coulson's collectable cards. Nor did he fit the 'Military Ken Doll' description that the HR girls had given her. In person, she saw that her imagination had shorthanded her when trying to conjure the living, breathing breadth of him.

Maybe it was the fact that she was seeing him in true colour for the first time, or maybe her sleep-deprived eyes were playing tricks. He looked as though a film editor had come along and adjusted his saturation to appear more full and vibrant than anyone around him. His eyes were distractingly blue. His lips were distractingly red.

He was polite, but he rarely smiled.

Clara was getting a good look at him through a wall of one-way glass. She stood in merciful privacy behind an observation mirror as Maria Hill walked him through stacks of paperwork. She supposed Hill was keeping him in a secure room while she collected his signatures, just in case he made another run for it. Fortunately for Steve, this was their least-intimidating interrogation suite, complete with comfortable leather chairs and a well-stocked mini-fridge.

Steve diligently signed and initialled his way through piles of paperwork, stopping only to clarify the occasional clause. Each signature brought him closer to his new life here in 2012, or so they had told him. The contracts were designed to keep him out of trouble as he roamed the streets and made a new life for himself.

Hill had informed him that today would be his last at S.H.I.E.L.D HQ. After a week of thorough examinations, both physical and mental, Steve would be free to walk out of here. Clara would be the one holding the door for him.

The door to the interrogation room swung open and Clara nearly jumped out of her skin. Hill greeted her and helped herself to a water bottle before she joined Clara at the observation window.

Hill tutted and shook her head, 'They certainly don't make them like they used to.'

'They certainly do not,' Clara agreed, eyes grazing upon Steve's body as he leaned back for a long stretch.

'I meant this,' Hill scoffed, handing over a small flip phone that looked as though it had fallen into the wrong decade. 'We'll start him on this and move him onto headpieces and smartphones when he gets the hang of it. There's a tracker installed in there. It'll alert you if he wanders anywhere he shouldn't.'

'Is that right. Does he know?'

'The tracker? Of course. It's only temporary. It's more for his safety than anything else – the city's layout has changed a lot since he was last living in it.'

Hill clasped her hands behind her back and returned her attention to Steve. Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared a little. Over the years, Clara had grown to accept the fact that she would never be able to read Hill. It was a fact that both irritated and impressed her.

'Got your firearm on you, Farrell?'

'Always,' Clara patted the gun concealed in a holster beneath her skirt.

'Good,' Hill glanced across her shoulder and lowered her voice. 'Listen, I know that Coulson is a big fan of our friend in there, but I don't think he's ready to just waltz out of here today. So soon. It doesn't feel right.' She moved away from the window and directed Clara to do the same, 'Rejoining society is one thing. Being roped into the initiative is another.'

'You're not wrong,' Clara admitted, grateful and a little excited to be let in on Hill's private observations.

'I've already picked my bone with Fury about it, so for the next few months we're just going to have to watch and wait.' Hill looked Clara up and down, then added 'If anything happens, I want you to call me. I'll be there.'

'Thank you, ma'am. I'll do my best to keep him out of trouble.'

'I'm not talking about him. I'm talking about you.' Hill rested her hands on her hips and shifted her weight, softening her tone as she spoke, 'Remember, you're just as valuable as he is. If he puts you in any danger, don't hesitate to defend yourself. Keep your wits about you, and your gun.'

'Thank you, ma'am. I will.'

'Alright. He's all yours. Good luck.'

With that, Hill scooped up a large armful of newly-signed documentation and marched smartly from the room. Clara waited until the steady tap of her boots faded before she turned back to the observation mirror.

Alone and unattended, Steve rose from his chair and paced around the table. He propped his back against a wall and rolled his neck from left to right.

Determined to see the man smile, Clara cleared her throat and pressed a little red button beside the mirror. It projected her voice through speakers in the roof of the interrogation room.

'Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to New York City. Local time is 2012 and the temperature is a balmy 73 degrees.'

Steve jumped at the sound and searched around the room for its source.

Clara continued, making an effort to maintain her character, 'Please check around your seat for any personal belongings you may have brought on board with you, and please use caution when exiting the S.H.I.E.L.D building. We'd appreciate it if you didn't knock over any more of our crew members on your way out.'

By this point in her speech, Steve had begun to shake his head. He folded his arms and gave the observation mirror his very best unimpressed face.

'Alright. Very funny,' he said.

'On behalf of S.H.I.E.L.D. Airlines and the entire crew, I'd like to thank you for joining us on this trip through time itself. Have a lovely day.'

'I take it this means I can go, now?' he asked, directing his question to the voice in the roof.

Clara pressed another button and the door to the interrogation room swung wide open. Steve strode through the doorway and set his eyes upon the owner of the pretend pilot's voice.

She wasn't what he'd expected.

He was told that he would be left in the capable hands of an agent who would chauffeur him through the city while he found his feet. He'd expected another nervous woman in a 40s costume, much like the lady who had greeted him in the faux hospital room. Here instead was a sweet little creature with a mess of dark curls and a pair of mischievous dark eyes. She beamed at him through large circular frames.

'That was a swell performance, ma'am,' he said by way of greeting.

'It's nice to meet you, Mr Rogers. Or, Captain Rogers?' she offered a hand for him to shake. 'I'm Clara.'

'Steve is fine,' he shook her hand enthusiastically.

Clara's hand was soft, and she smelled as though she had walked through a field of flowers on her way to see him.

'So, are you ready to head out?' she asked him. 'Do you need to collect anything before we go?'

A mixture of relief and excitement danced across his face. He patted his pockets and did a quick scan around the room, 'I guess it's just me.'

'Lovely. I thought we might go for a bit of a wander before you get settled into your apartment. Where would you like to go?'

Steve tapped his fingers across his chin and wrinkled his lips in thought, 'I guess we should start with my old neighbourhood. See what's become of it. Maybe I'll head to the library and catch up on, well, everything.'

After a week spent cooped up in the depths of S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, Clara didn't think it would be healthy for Steve to spend his first day of freedom sitting in a stuffy library. She knew that Coulson would agree.

'We'll have time for that, don't you worry,' she assured him. 'For now, let's do something special. Something just for you. Are you hungry?'

'I could really go for a milkshake,' he shrugged and laughed at the childishness of his request.

'Now you're talking.' she whipped out her phone to search for an address. 'I know just the place.'

'And I'd like to buy a motorcycle. Where do you find one of those in 2012?'

She froze, 'Ehm, well. Where would you be planning to ride the thing?'

Steve didn't appreciate the question. 'Not sure. I guess I'll know when I get there.'

'We'll need to see about having your license renewed then, won't we.'

'Renewed?' Steve frowned and planted his palms on his hips. 'Now listen here. It's only been two years since I got it. I just took the...'

Confusion twisted his face. Clara watched cautiously as he clicked the puzzle pieces of time back together. He noticed that she had taken two steps away from him.

'The roads have changed a lot since you last drove along them, Mr Rogers. I'm sure you can handle yourself on a motorcycle well enough. But, for the safety of the other drivers, it's best for you to do some brushing up on the rules.'

There was no room for argument in her tone.

'Right. Of course,' he shook his head and dropped his hands. 'Sorry, I shouldn't have blown my top. I just don't think I could handle taking another test right now.'

'It's alright,' she gave him a sympathetic smile and relaxed her stance. 'You look knackered. Let's get a milkshake in you, Mr Rogers.'

'Steve's fine, ma'am.'

* * *

Steve's mind whirled as he processed all the technological wonders that he'd witnessed that day. In his hands were a dozen fat shopping bags, each filled with purchases he'd made by swiping a little plastic card and punching in some numbers. He couldn't see the money moving from his bank to the store's register, but the receipt denoting the transaction's approval meant it simply must have happened. Somehow.

He knew that he'd eventually become savvy with the tech. He was determined to improve, and he appreciated its intelligent design. The looks of confusion and frustration people gave him while he fumbled with his pin number would be a little harder to get used to.

Of all the modern marvels that Steve had seen that day, none perplexed him quite as much as a pair of pink light-up shoes. He spotted them on the little girl who rode with him and Clara in the elevator, bound for the fifth floor; his new home. The shoes twinkled like tiny constellations as the girl hopped on each foot and chatted excitedly to her mother.

Clara followed Steve's line of sight and smiled at the articles that had so ardently captured his attention.

'Those are some very fancy shoes you have on there, wee one,' she smiled, giving Steve a friendly nudge. 'Don't you think?'

He nodded, 'I've never seen anything quite like them.'

The girl and her mother exchanged a bright smile, 'What do you say to the nice lady, Holly?'

'Thank you. They were for my birthday.'

When the elevator stopped, Holly and her mother hopped out and made room for Steve. He hauled his shopping through the doors and started down the hallway. Clara shadowed him, patting her pockets for the key to his new apartment.

'GET DOWN!'

A man's voice boomed through the hallway, followed by a barrage of bullets that trembled the walls around them. The sound of gunfire and shouting could be heard from an apartment mere feet away from the elevator.

'Clara!' Steve's voice boomed, confident and commanding.

Clara retrieved the small pistol from her concealed holster. Steve had already dropped his bags and leapt for the little girl and her mother. He gathered them both into his immense arms and manoeuvred to shield them with his body.

'Get them out of here, Steve,' Clara signalled to a nearby fire exit.

Another bout of gunfire sounded from the apartment by the elevator. Clara crouched by the apartment door and forced herself to breathe while she waited for Steve to usher everyone through the fire exit. She reached for the doorknob and tested it. It was unlocked.

_One. Two. Three._

'D-drop your weapon!'

The gunfire stopped. The silence that followed was so sudden that it left her ears ringing. A pot-bellied man in orange pyjamas stood before her, brandishing his TV remote like a baton. A battle scene had been paused on the screen behind him.

'What the hell, lady?' he whined, breaking the silence.

Clara lowered her weapon and exchanged it for her S.H.I.E.L.D. badge. He didn't bother inspecting it, and he didn't lower his remote.

'Turn that fecking movie down,' she commanded. 'I nearly unloaded this clip in your television set.'

He blinked at her, 'I was testing out my new surround sound.'

'Well, you gave your neighbours a right good scare.'

'So, they called the cops on me?' he assessed her with a suspicious glare. 'I bet it was that old coot in twenty-eight.'

Clara shifted her weight on her heels. She sighed and pressed a palm to her chest in an effort to calm her racing heart.

'Can you leave, now?'

'Right,' she opened his door to let herself out. 'Sorry for the disturbance. You might want to see about locking this, too.'

She heard him swearing at her as she brought his door to a close.

Clara found Steve standing outside the apartment with his face buried in his hands. He was panting. She guessed that he'd rushed to her aid and heard the exchange between her and the orange pyjama-wearing man. Maria Hill's words played across her mind as she took in the sad sight of him.

_I don't think he's ready to just waltz out of here today. So soon. It doesn't feel right._

'Steve, do you understand what happened here?' Clara whispered, keeping an ear out for any nosey neighbours.

Steve lowered his hands and nodded wordlessly. At least he was a fast learner. Clara's heart bled for him – he looked as though he'd just run over someone's dog.

'Where's the wee one and her mother?' she asked.

'Two floors down in a broom closet. They're safe. I'll go get them.'

'Best if I go,' she handed him the key to his apartment. 'You go get your shopping together and let yourself in. Put the kettle on and make yourself a strong cup of tea. Enjoy the new apartment.'

'Can you tell them I'm sorry?' he whispered, the key rattling in his hand. 'Holly was so scared.'

'You meant no harm. You were only doing your job.'

He shook his head and turned away from her.

'The sound was so real. I heard the screams, saw the bodies.'

'Screens and sounds are a lot more crisp and clear now,' she agreed. 'It had me fooled for a minute there, too. You'll get used to it. Just be patient with yourself.'

'People talk about the war like it happened in a scary book. To some other people in some other time. Clara, it hasn't even been a month since I...'

'Come here, Steve.'

Clara reached out and took as much of him in her arms as she could.

His own arms curled around her waist and he squeezed her tight, making an effort not to lift her from the ground. They embraced silently in the hallway, bodies trembling with adrenaline.

Eventually, she released him, and he watched her walk away.

'How do you like your tea?' he called after her.

Clara smiled politely at the invitation, 'Strong. Leave in the bag and add a dash of milk.'

She gave him a wave and disappeared through the fire exit.

The sounds of raging battle resumed within the apartment by the elevator.

Quieter, this time.

* * *

It was amazing just how much of the world could be blurred behind closed curtains. With plenty of warm lamplight illuminating his apartment, Steve paced between the rooms and pretended for a fleeting moment that this was 1945. The earthy interior palette and the charming arrangement of vintage furnishings aided the illusion beautifully.

Two cups of tea had cooled completely on his kitchen counter. Beside them, his phone beeped softly, flashing Clara's name and number on the screen. Two missed calls and three new messages from her had yet to be noticed.

In the living room, Steve stood at his phonograph and made a selection from the records arranged for him in a hefty wooden chest. He loaded his chosen record onto the turntable and sighed with relief as it started to spin. Slow and steady.

_So far so good – no pin numbers required._

When he was ready, Steve dropped the needle. He folded his arms and closed his eyes as the diamond tip coaxed a soft instrumental introduction from the vinyl. Music saturated his living room, quelling the hum of traffic with each lingering note. The vocalist's soulful lyrics were textured with a warm and familiar crackle.

Steve practised rolling his neck in circles, left and right, as the therapist at S.H.I.E.L.D. had instructed him to do. While the action alleviated some tension, it offered no such solution for the vertigo. He braced his back against a nearby wall. The solid surface slowly countered the day's effects on his sense of equilibrium. When gravity tugged him to the floor, he made no effort to resist it.

Hunkered down beside his phonograph, Steve tipped his head back against the wall and let Mr Sandman send him a dream.


	2. Emergency Extraction

**Several months later.**

It would be difficult to distinguish one Heathglen Lane house from another on a normal day. On a moonless night, blanketed by a fresh powdering of snow, the tightly-packed townhouses simply became one great wall of urban residency.

Clara crawled her car along the lane, scanning for signs of life amid the rows of SUVs and manicured lawns.

A man's silhouette emerged through the sheets of snow. Wrapped in a thick duster coat, he towered over a cluster of mailboxes and watched her approach with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets and his chin buried in his scarf. A leather duffel bag sat at his heels like a sleeping dog. Both master and bag looked miserable and in need of collection.

She pulled into the driveway beside him and popped her boot. The car shuddered as he loaded his bag inside. Her heart skipped a beat when his smiling face appeared in the passenger's window, adding so much colour to the cold, muted surrounds.

Steve Rogers stuffed his impressive form into the seat beside her and greeted her with a Merry Christmas, followed by a series of apologies.

'It's fine,' Clara chanted, reversing an inch at a time to avoid claiming any lawn ornaments beneath her tyres. 'I was heading out anyways.'

'Oh, you were?'

'I needed to stock up on snacks. You don't mind if I make a quick stop before your apartment, do you?'

Steve flicked his eyes over his watch. 'I wouldn't mind if you just dropped me off at a train station. I should be able to find my way home from there.'

'Steve, please. I came all this way to rescue you. You might as well let me complete the mission.'

'I just wouldn't want to keep you from your friends and family.'

'I've flown back to Ireland to visit them every Christmas since I moved over here. I told them that if they wanted to see me for Christmas this year, they'd just have to book themselves a few tickets to New York.'

Steve seemed impressed. 'Well, good for you. How did it all turn out?'

'About as well as your night, by the looks.' she half laughed, half sighed. 'It'll just be me tonight.'

Steve echoed her sigh, 'Family, huh?'

Clara turned to send him a sympathetic smile and caught him tracing something in his misted window. She didn't get a good look between glances, but she could tell that the designs were delicate and detailed.

'Shall we go for a drink?' she asked. 'Drown our sorrows?'

Steve didn't look away from his drawing, 'What did you have in mind?'

'I'm going to get us a pair of big, stupid Christmas coffees. We'll get them with all the sprinkles and syrups and bells and whistles. It'll be grand. You won't be able to sleep for a week.'

'Sounds like a good plan.' he chuckled.

Clara's enthusiasm was infectious. As always, he was content to be led on one of her little adventures.

She flicked through radio stations until she found one that favoured Christmas classics over covers. She figured that this would be Steve's preference, and she wasn't wrong. Listening to Sam Cooke crooning sweet ballads seemed to warm the car in a way that the heating system never could.

Steve leaned back and examined his frosty window canvas. He pouted his lips and exhaled a warm puff of air, coating the glass in a fresh layer of mist. Now, Clara could more clearly see the elegant arrangement of snowflakes that he'd been sketching.

'So, things didn't go down so well with your family?' she asked.

'Oh, things were just _swell_.'

She looked at him as though she were scanning him for damage, 'I've never heard you use that word ironically before.'

She listened as he recollected terrible tales of spoilt children with their 'apple pads' and inebriated cousins with their disregard for his personal space. He was most disgusted by the fact that none of them expressed a desire to attend a church carol service with him on Christmas morning.

'I decided I wanted to leave the moment I walked in there,' he said with wary finality.

'Ugh, I knew it,' she scoffed, aggressively adjusting her spectacles. 'I should have said something when Coulson set this up – he thought he was doing you some great favour by tracking down your distant relatives and sending you there for Christmas.'

Steve rubbed his chin, 'I mean, it could be worse. At least I get to share the drive home with my best girl.'

Clara felt a prickling sensation forming across her nose and cheeks, 'Is that why you called for me rather than a taxi? Or an Uber? Or a Coulson?'

He looked embarrassed by her questions, and she instantly regretted asking them. She'd only meant to tease.

'I picked up the phone and asked Miss Siri to find me a taxi. Just like you showed me,' he winced at the memory and debated whether or not he'd continue. 'Well, let's just say that I got into a bit of an argument with her. It didn't end well.'

Clara laughed and shook her head, her dark curls danced with the motion.

'Yours is the only number that I know by heart,' he continued. 'I dialled you on up and hoped for the best. And here you are.'

Steve gave her the sort of warm smile that belonged in a sepia-tinted photograph. She pried her eyes away from him and back to the road with some difficulty. Her hand reached out by its own volition and gave him a friendly rub across his arm. She hoped he wouldn't mind. It felt right to have some point of contact between them.

'I'm glad that you called me,' she said, and she meant it.

He covered her hand with his own and gave it a gentle squeeze, 'I'm glad that I called you, too.'

* * *

In the distance, a familiar two-tailed siren illuminated the night through sheets of falling snow.

'Here we are.' Clara declared, pulling into a mostly-empty Starbucks parking lot.

Steve was out of his seat before she'd even removed her key from the ignition. He appeared at her door and offered a hand to help her out of the vehicle.

'So, if you're not travelling home for the holidays, will this be your first American Christmas?' he asked conversationally.

'Pretty and perceptive.' she teased, taking the hand that he'd offered.

Steve raised his brows at her compliment and avoided meeting her eyes, 'And have you been skating yet?'

'You mean ice skating? I'm terrible at it.'

'Define terrible.'

'As in I cannot skate for shit.' She closed her car door and fumbled with her keys, 'I did more skating on my arse than my own two feet.'

'Mind your language,' he muttered.

'Don't start that language stuff with me again, Steve Rogers. I'll happily return you to your relatives. I'm sure your handsy drunk cousins would be happy to see you again.'

She fished out a pair of gloves from her pocket and took a moment to slip them on. Steve leaned against the car beside her.

'Everyone ends up on their tuchus when they try skating for the first time. It's tradition.' She rolled her eyes at that, but Steve was persistent, 'If you ask me, it just sounds like you need to give skating another go. I'll take you some time.'

'Does the thought of watching me flail around on my "tuchus" really sound that appealing to you?'

He paused for a moment, eyes fixed on her mouth as she tugged the edge of her glove between her teeth.

'I'll hold you,' he said simply.

She liked the way he said that, but she wasn't convinced. 'I tried leaning on the railing. It didn't work.'

'I don't mean leaning. I mean…' Steve drew his hands from his coat pockets and offered them to her, 'Do you mind if I show you what I mean?'

Clara nodded, intrigued.

Steve stepped behind her and rested his hands upon her waist. He took a moment to consider his grip, and then she was in the air.

'Your skates would bring you to about this height,' he said. 'Then I'd just hold you in front of me. Like...this.'

He brought her closer, supporting her body against his chest. The position certainly felt solid enough for skating, but such matters weren't foremost on her mind at that moment. Each word that he spoke reverberated against her back, and his breath tickled her neck.

His voice didn't carry a hint of struggle as he said 'I could hold you up while you get your balance, and set you down when you feel a bit more confident about it all.'

Suspended before him, all Clara could do was smile like an idiot at the otherworldly display of strength. Her imagination ran wild with the ways in which Steve's strength might benefit his participation in matters other than ice skating.

'Would this work for you, Clara?'

She nodded, 'This could work.'

He set her down gently, though he didn't rush to let her go, 'Alright then, it's settled. I'm taking you for a skate.'

She fixed her coat and flicked him a half smile, 'We'll see.'

* * *

Inside the cafe, the air was warm and thick with the scent of festive spices and freshly-ground coffee. An electric fire danced in the far corner, and rows of dark wooden booths lined the frosted windows. Garlands and sparkling baubles were abundantly installed hither and thither, and a barista in a Santa hat gave them a wave from somewhere behind the coffee machine.

Steve stared up at the menu as though it were written in alien glyphs. She watched with quiet amusement as his eyes traversed the signage, trying to find some semblance of traditional cafe offerings amid the festive selections.

'What do you feel like?' Clara asked.

Steve blinked out of whatever thought he'd been lost in, 'Well, what are you having?'

'I'm having a gingerbread one. Just name your favourite Christmas dessert and they're probably serving it in the shape of a latte. That's pretty much how it works, here.'

He dragged a hand over his mouth and considered his options. From somewhere beneath his gloved fingers she heard him mumbling something about apple pie.

'Yes,' she said simply.

He looked at her as though she had told him a filthy joke, 'Apple pie coffee?'

'It'll be grand,' she said with a little flourish of her hand. 'Let's do it.'

She took his arm and guided him to the register, where she placed a complex order for two drinks that sounded more like desserts. He caught terms such as 'whipped cream' and 'extra hot' being thrown around and wondered how the poor barista was going to remember it all.

He was so distracted by the ordering process that he'd forgotten to offer to foot the bill, though he'd been told that the ladies liked to halve it these days anyway.

'It's my pleasure,' she assured him as they claimed their drinks and slipped into one of the cosy window booths. 'Besides, if you absolutely hate your coffee, then at least you won't be wasting your money. No harm done.'

Steve absolutely didn't hate his coffee – if you could actually call it a coffee. It was more like a hot milkshake with traces of apple pie and espresso. It was enormous and topped with a healthy dose of cinnamon. Despite his metabolic resilience to caffeine and sugar, he could still feel a slight rush coursing through his veins. He watched Clara serenely sipping her litre of caffeine and wondered why she hadn't started shaking yet.

'Everything ok?' she asked.

Steve blinked and realised that he'd been staring at her.

'Yeah,' he started, fumbling for a response 'I was just thinking about the last time I went on a date.'

'A date? I thought...you told me that you never had the chance?'

'This one was Bucky's doing. He fixed me up with a poor dame who had no idea she'd been assigned a mercy date. She took one look at me and spent the rest of the evening hiding behind her friend.'

'Hiding? Why would she be hiding? Did you have tentacles before you took that serum?'

Steve shook his head, 'No, ma'am. I was just smaller. A lot smaller.'

Clara shot him a sharp look over her frames, 'Did the serum do much to change your face?'

'No. I don't think so.'

'How about your morals? Your personality? Your faith? Your sense of humour?'

'No, ma'am.'

She threw up her hands up at that. 'Then I don't see what the problem is. She just didn't know what she was missing out on. I'm sure that she'd have warmed up to you if she'd got you talking or seen your beautiful sketches. You're a sweetheart, Steve. Serum or no.'

Clara took a long swig from her monolithic beverage and stared out the window beside them. She seemed to lose herself in the view, studying the river of traffic as it coursed through an endless flurry of snow.

A sudden tingling sensation at her temple stole her attention back to Steve. He was reaching across the table to tuck a loose curtain of curls behind her ear. His large, gentle fingers fumbled a little as they worked the hair into place, and her heart melted at the look of concentration on his face.

Clara set her cup down and caught his hand against her cheek. She kept it there, pressed into the corner of her smile.

He ran his thumb gently across her lips and sighed deeply. 'I really don't wanna be alone tonight, Clara.'

'I had no intention of letting that happen, darling.'


End file.
